


A Study in Film

by fuckingspacequeen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckingspacequeen/pseuds/fuckingspacequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's March 31st and Sherlock has a surprise for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Film

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a piece of fanart in which John and Sherlock go to see themselves in the RDJude version of Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately I can no longer locate that lovely piece of work, but all credit goes to the artist for the idea!
> 
> Once again an emphatic thank you to my darling beta (and teacherly grammar Nazi) watching-us-fall of tumblr. 
> 
> Hope you all like it!
> 
> If not...sorry?
> 
> Also apologies for the horrific title. I'm not creative at all, it would seem.

“Get your coat.”

“What?”

“I said,  _get your coat_.”

“Yes, I heard what you said, but –“

“Then why are you still sitting there?”

Sighing, John heaved himself out of the warmth of his favourite armchair and glanced over at Sherlock – who, predictably, was preening in the mirror – and stretched. “Am I at least allowed to know where we're going?” he asked the brunette mildly, long since resigned to the fact that the answer to his question was likely to be met with a scornful rebuttal.

He was almost shocked – although pleasantly so – when, in fact, Sherlock turned around to look at him, lips curling slightly at the corners, before responding, “It's a surprise, actually.”

John couldn't quite keep the suspicion out of his tone as he shrugged on his coat, eyes still on Sherlock, and asked, “What kind of surprise?”

Sherlock smirked. “Your kind of surprise.”

“You mean something that doesn't involve getting shot at, kidnapped, or strapped full of explosives?” John shot back somewhat dryly as he grinned at his friend.

Choosing to ignore the snipe, Sherlock opened the door and ushered John down the stairs with the customary sense of urgency. John had become so used to it over the past year and a half that he was almost immune – almost, but just not quite. Sherlock still had the frankly alarming ability to suck John in, drawing him into his every last madcap scheme and situation with such ease that sometimes the doctor had to force himself to stop and take a step back; sometimes he had to remind himself that chasing after often armed and always dangerous criminals was  _not_  normal.

The silence as Sherlock bundled John into a taxi, which was taking them God only knew where, was as companionable as it always was. On the seat next to him, Sherlock was practically vibrating with impatience, and John couldn't help the fond smile curling the corners of his mouth upwards as he glanced over at his friend.

When the taxi finally stopped sometime later, John peered out into the murky late evening, unable to make out much in the dim light. He wasn't even sure he knew which area of London they were in. “Where are we?” he asked, as he climbed stiffly out of the back of the car, Sherlock holding the door open for him.

“Wait and see,” came the anticipated – but nevertheless unhelpful – response, as Sherlock led him away from the road and towards an old building. A cursory glance told John that he definitely had no idea where they were, and nothing in the immediate vicinity was giving anything away about what the so called surprise might be.

He hurried to catch up with his friend, falling into step beside the tall brunette as he pulled open the front door of the building and then led John up a steep flight of stairs. What he'd expected, he didn't quite know, but as John found himself emerging into a well lit box office, he was actually quite bewildered.

 “Sherlock, what –?” he began, cutting his sentence short as he followed his friend's gaze over to one of the posters on the wall. The poster in question was different from all the rest, for a start because it could hardly even be called a poster; it was huge, taking up the entirety of the space above the ticket booths. But that was hardly the remarkable part. John found himself gaping as he looked up at Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law gazing back at him, the words  _Sherlock Holmes_  emblazoned behind the pair, alongside an allusion to a woman and their home in Baker Street.

It took John a full minute to get his faculties about him, stop staring at the giant picture, and turn to look at Sherlock instead. His friend was wearing a somewhat predictably smug smirk, although there was something unreadable sparkling in his eyes as well.

“It's … I don't … Sherlock ..  _what_!?” John sputtered finally, his suspicion completely apparent in the wary way in which he was currently appraising the consulting detective.

Sherlock's response was surprisingly patient. “It's a film John; about us, in fact. I thought you might like to go and see it.”

“A film?”

“Yes.”

“About  _us_?”

“Yes.”

“Our lives … in a film?”

Sherlock sighed, his patience – what little of it there was – obviously wearing thin. “Yes, John. A film about us, and our lives, and the crimes we've solved together.”

Trying his best to process everything that was going on, John began, “But how did you –?”

“I forged your signature,” Sherlock interrupted, and the doctor ignored the implied  _obviously._

It certainly wasn't all obvious to him.

“How come I didn't –?” he began again, but it was also in vain.

“A filter or block on the internet connection, or some such thing. Courtesy of Mycroft, actually,” Sherlock waved a hand around in the air vaguely, as though the details weren't important, which of course, to him, they weren't.

“But Scotland –?”

He wasn't even allowed to get the  _Yard_ out before Sherlock had supplied him with, “Under oath not to let anything slip. Look, it wasn't difficult, John, but what does it matter how I managed to keep it all a secret, anyhow?”

John's brows knit together in something of a confused scowl as he looked at Sherlock, obviously still trying desperately to catch up – wasn't he always? “But you must have been planning this for  _months,_ ” he said finally in a small voice, after something of an elongated pause.

Sherlock’s smile was almost  _soft_ , and his capacity for patience suddenly reappeared. “Do you know what day it is today?” he asked.

John shook his head.

“Do you know what the  _date_  is today?”

There was a slight pause. “It's the thirty firs …  _oh,_ ” John began, cutting himself off as realisation dawned.

Sherlock's smile widened. “Happy birthday.”

There was another elongated pause, this time because Sherlock's words had sent an almost physical shock through John, pooling in the pit of his stomach and leaving him momentarily breathless. He knew, after all, that Sherlock deleted any information that he didn't deem important, and the fact that he'd not only remembered John's birthday but also put this much effort into it meant that he must think John himself was important.

That realisation alone left him feeling light headed.

John's expression of surprise softened and then turned into a genuine smile as he looked up at Sherlock, who once again had a sparkle in his eye that the doctor just couldn't quite make sense of. Right at that moment in time, though, it hardly mattered.

“I –” he began, words piling up behind the lump in his throat.

“Let's go inside, shall we?” Sherlock interrupted, this time kindly, and gestured towards one of the screen rooms.


End file.
